


Night Train

by WhiskeySoda



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Drunk Miles, Invisible Miles, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Typical public transportation experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskeySoda/pseuds/WhiskeySoda
Summary: Peter’s used to, maybe too used to, the feeling of Miles fitfully hard cock, pressed up against his skin. After all, there aren’t that many places to sleep in the studio apartment other than the mattress that takes up most of the floor. Peter’s only human and his reaction, inevitable. “Miles, you’re fourteen. You should be painfully, viscerally aware of how horrible it is to pop a boner in public.”





	Night Train

Peter has one standard. It’s nice. He keeps it on the busted particle board bookshelf he’s got in the studio apartment. Sure, it’s gathered some dust by now, but its there and it’s safe.

The problem is, when it’s safe on the shelf, its like an umbrella left in the backseat of the car when you take the bus instead. Not much good if you don’t have it right there with you _._

Peter has one standard, but given his current situation, it’s probably not the standard he _should_ have.

If his time in Miles Brooklyn taught him anything, it’s that this universe, Miles’ universe, Gwen’s universe, Noir’s universe, pick one, is delicately balanced. Stack one more takeout container on top of the pyramid overflowing from the garbage bin and it all goes tumbling down onto the floor.

Who really has the time or the energy to pick it all back up again?

It’s like this. It’s a little sad if you’re the guy in your late thirties slightly buzzed on _budget,_ and he cannot emphasize that term enough, _budget_ wine at 3:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday. It’s a little sad, but the friendly neighborhood Spidermen knocked around some assholes messing with 91st and 97th’s most beloved drunk. It would also be foolish, a dick move really, to not take the guy’s offering of gratitude. Not to mention, he’d even more of a dick if he didn’t let his partner in crime fighting have his fair share of the reward.

It’s a little sad if you’re the guy on the train dressed in a pair men’s Uggs that _not_ age well no matter how much Miles said they were kind of cool because some rapper wore them. Never take fashion advice from a fourteen-year-old. Maybe shoes with laces were the only thing that were the only thing that were keeping his life together, maybe shoes with laces were his one standard.  

It’s a little sad if you’re Spiderman and you can’t keep a tipsy, somewhat petulant, younger Spiderman under control.

“Miles, you’ve got to stop moving around,” Peter hisses through gritted teeth.

“Somethin’ wrong Peter?” Miles’ faux smooth voice cracks and pops like effervescent bubbles found in bottles of _budget_ wine. Can’t emphasize that enough, budget.

The sound of Miles’ laughter is swallowed up by the sound of the train rattling and lurching into the 104th street station. The little sliver that’s left over is sweet and just for him, like finding an Arizona iced tea in the fridge, long forgotten until just the right moment.

And it’s a little sad if the first time his dick has done anything in weeks is right now on the train. Miles is invisible right now, and has no idea what he’s doing other than getting a reaction. All that’s left is the clumsy but endearing warmth of inexperience. It’s just that simple.

Peter’s standard is that he can be any combination of sad: sad-pathetic, sad-angry, angry-pathetic. If his life were a card at May and Ben’s old Elks lodge, Peter’s already kind of got a bingo _without_ using his free space. Drunk and mumbling, drunk and groping invisible Spiderman. He tries really hard to not be drunk, mumbling, and groping invisible Spiderman in Uggs all at once. He really doesn’t need to cover the whole damn card.

“I told you to act cool. Do you honestly think you’re acting cool right now Miles?”

“Well…Nobody can see me?”

“That’s not—” It happens so slowly that Peter doesn’t even realize that it happens until it’s belligerent and obvious. Like Miles’ nonexistent alcohol tolerance.

Visible Miles is barely five feet tall. Of course, Miles insists that he’s five four now post spider bite, but Peter has a hunch that there’s a nurse out there that’s okay with telling him what he wants to hear. Five four or not, he’s pushed, and jostled on public transportation. Invisible Miles is all of those things and…invisible. More pushing, more shoving. By the time they make it to 82nd street, Peter’s got him pressed against his chest to keep him from stumbling backwards into the throng of other passengers. By 85th street Peter snags a seat and pulls Miles into his lap, and for a moment he honestly believes that it’s the safest place for him to be.

“I think you’re embarrassed cause you get mad at me for the exact same thing.”

 “Miles, you’re fourteen. You should be painfully, viscerally aware of how horrible it is to pop a boner in public.”

“Right now though? That sounds like a you problem. Do you have any more of that bum wine?”

“It’s budget wine.” Peter can’t emphasize that enough. You can _choose_ those savings.

“You want me to turn visible? You’d be covered up that way.”

“No, I absolutely do not, under any circumstances, want you to turn visible.” 

“Then I don’t think that I can help you.” Miles leans back against Peter’s chest. Curly hair tickles Peter’s nose, and then all that’s left is the feeling of Miles’ boneless body drooping downward. 

“Oh-kay, guy what are we doing here?” Hands looped underneath Miles’ armpits, Peter tugs all one hundred and five pounds of Miles upward.

“Peter? People are staring at you.”

At that exact moment, Peter locks eyes with a man with dyed lime green hair and a face full of piercings. Without breaking eye contact with the onlooking stranger, Peter whispers into the shell of Miles’ ear. “Ah, wonder why?”

 The feeling of Miles shuddering against him is satisfying like trying on a pair of pants that haven’t been worn in awhile and finding out that they still fit. 

 Miles doesn’t respond, and simply repeats the same frantic and disjointed actions that got them into this mess. He grinds backwards against Peter, shifting his weight from one side to the other. Miles’ thighs jostle-caress Peter’s cock, and it’s absolutely the best-worst feeling. Miles makes a liquid half-laugh sound that melts into the flocked upholstery of the subway seat on contact and leaves thick unpleasant residue across both of their skin. Peter doesn’t so much feel Miles move in his lap as he feels the burst of air blow his hair back as Miles whips around in his lap.

Miles’ weight is distributed differently on Peter’s body now; center of gravity facing inward instead of toward the scuffed floor of the train car. Maybe Miles isn’t wrong. Maybe it does piss him off.

Peter’s used to, maybe too used to, the feeling of Miles fitfully hard cock, pressed up against his skin. After all, there aren’t that many places to sleep in the studio apartment other than the mattress that takes up most of the floor. Peter’s only human and his reaction, inevitable. This scenario, whether here, or in his apartment, Miles’ dorm, or up on the top of Chrysler building, was a matter of _when_ , not if.

Here, the illusion of control that exists in the apartment is gone. He can’t peel Miles away, roll over, and heave himself up out of bed. Now, with Miles hands looped around his neck, there’s nowhere to go to escape the feeling of Miles’ alcohol and sugar tinged breath mingling with his own. No way to outrun the stifling feeling of Miles’ cock pressed against his own.  

“This will look really weird then, huh?” Miles is young, and has never had the chance to be anything other than furtive. In the same way that he slaps stickers against the side of vending machines, he slaps his lips against Peter’s hard, abrasive, and gone in a flash.

“Not as weird as this.” Peter’s hand fumbles against thick hair, trailing downward until the tips of his fingers meet the nape of Miles’ neck. His lips brush haphazardly against a cheekbone, the side of his nose, and then finally—

Well…the repulsed glare he gets from a Pilates mom wearing half a month’s rent worth of Lululemon says it all really. Peter doesn’t so much kiss Miles as he licks him across the face until he finds his mouth and dips his tongue inside.  “I can’t see where I’m going, what’s your excuse?”

For a moment, there’s nothing. Then, “Peter,” Miles’ voice trembles, not in drunkenness, but in shame. And an explanatory, “it’s okay if no one can see me.”

Sure.

Peter doesn’t need to see to know what happens next. The sharp sound of a zipper being undone signifies Miles’ hand dipping under the waistband of his cargo shorts and over the smooth nylon of his suit.

“This is some seriously flawed design.”

“I don’t think you’re having any problems.” Peter moves his hands cautiously over the crest of Miles’ hips and the spray paint flecked fabric on his thighs. Groping about and unable to see, the tips of Peter’s fingers graze Miles’ cock for fractions of seconds and are quickly pushed away by Miles’ own frantic palming motions.

Pressing his hand over Miles’ mouth is somehow worse than letting him moan through pursed lips. The sounds may be quieter, but he feels every sound against the palm of his hand just as much as he feels in the place that’s blanketed by Miles’ thighs.

Because Miles is young, and has never had time to be anything other than furtive, muffled and obscured, he mumbles against Peter’s hand something that sounds a lot like, “ohmygodpeter.” One word with too many syllables is the only warning that Peter gets before his hand slides against noticeably damper fabric

Simple and automatic, Peter presses his fingers against plush lips and feels them part when his fingertips are enveloped in the damp of Miles mouth.

“Nasty,” Miles mumbles around his thumb. Peter doesn’t need to see his face to see the scowl turned pout that he wears upon his face. Peter sees it in the mornings when Miles grabs Peter’s black coffee instead of his own off white with milk and full of sugar, and Peter sees it when Miles falls through the dimensional portal and finds Peter watching _Murder She Wrote_ reruns…Again.

“Yeah, you said the same thing about that Night Train and then it was gone.” Lazily, Peter wipes his hand across the rough fabric of Miles’ cargo shorts. The pad of his thumb catches against the square of Velcro on his undone pocket.

“This is us.” Peter rises, stumbles forward with the lurch of the train with Miles thrown over his shoulder. It’s four blocks back to the apartment from the train station, and five flights of stairs upward because the elevator in his building never works.

His chest feels tight a few flights in, and he can feel his way, way too elevated heart rate in his ears when he stops and leans on the railing at the landing. That’s nothing in comparison to the Miles induced coronary episode that follows.

 Body still like jelly, Miles wilts onto the unmade, crumb covered bed that doesn’t have sheets on it. Only when the bed springs groan in protest does Miles turn visible once more. Hair disheveled, pants still unbuttoned, pooled at his hips. Somehow, he manages to get his left arm out of the suit, but fabric catches at his right shoulder, and pulls awkwardly across his skin. Miles writhes haphazardly against the floral pink nylon bare mattress.

Peter has one standard. It’s on the bookshelf pushed to the back behind a couple of empty beer bottles, and some books that he got out of the “free” bin outside of the crunchy coffee shop that he passes by every day but never goes inside of and similarly never read. It’s jammed back thee for a reason. He doesn’t really need it now in the privacy of his own home where his Uggs are cast aside. But if he ever does, it’s there just in case. 

He can feel it in his knees when he bends downward to climb in bed, a feeling caught between ache and acceptance. “Here Miles, let me help you with that.”


End file.
